And just as she went, with blinded eyes and aching heart, to shut herself away from the dreariness of the present, Truedale entered the house and, from the hall, watched her.  He believed that she had heard him enter, he hoped she was going to turn toward him—­but no! she went straight to the never-used room, shut the door, and—­locked it!

Truedale stood rooted to the spot.  What he had hoped—­what trusted—­he could hardly have told.  But manlike he was the true conservative and with the turning of that key his traditions and established position crumbled around him.

Lynda and he were married and, unless they decided upon an open break, they must live their lives.  But the turning of the key seemed to proclaim to the whole city a new dispensation.  A declaration of independence that spurned—­tradition.

For a moment Truedale was angry, unsettled, and outraged.  He strode into the room with stern eyes; he walked half way to the closed—­and locked—­door; he gazed upon it as if it were a tangible foe which he might overcome and, by so doing, reestablish the old ideals.  Then—­and it was the saving grace—­Truedale smiled grimly.  “To be sure,” he muttered.  “Of course!” and turned to his room under the eaves.

But the following day had to be faced.  There were several things that had to be dealt with besides the condition arising from the locking of the door of William Truedale’s room.

Conning battled with this fact nearly all night, little realizing that Lynda was feeling her way to the same conclusion in the quiet room below.

“I’m not beaten, Uncle William,” she whispered, kneeling beside the bed.  “If I could only see how to meet to-morrow I would be all right.”

And then a queer sort of comfort came to her.  The humour with which her old friend would have viewed the situation pervaded the room, bringing strength with it.

“I know,” she confided to the darkness in which the old man seemed present, in a marvellously real way, “I know I love Conning.  A make-believe love couldn’t stand this—­but the true thing can.  And he loves me! I know it through and through.  The other love of his wasn’t—­what this is.  But he must find this out for himself.  I’ve always been close when he needed me; he must come to me now—­for his sake even more than for mine.  I am deserving of that, am I not, Uncle William?”

The understanding friendship did not fail the girl kneeling by the empty bed.  It seemed to come through the rays of moonlight and rest like a helpful touch upon her.

“Little mother!”—­and in her soul Lynda believed William Truedale and her mother had come together—­“little mother, you did your best without love; I will do mine—­with it!  And now I am going to bed and I am going to sleep.”

The next morning Truedale and Lynda were both so precipitate about attacking the situation that they nearly ran into each other at the dining-room door.  They both had the grace to laugh.  Then they talked of the work at hand for the morning.